


Clamour

by wedjateye



Category: Weiss Kreuz
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-02
Updated: 2010-10-02
Packaged: 2017-10-12 08:42:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,352
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/123030
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wedjateye/pseuds/wedjateye
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>PWP with Yohji in a pair of Speedos (bunny for that image courtesy of Emungere's fabulous story Aloha) and Aya less than happy. Beta thanks to Kispexi2.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Clamour

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
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Aya's hands twitch towards his damn tie yet again and he forces himself to pick up a glass to polish instead. Anything to keep himself busy and maintain his cover. He must remain professional. He even manages a polite smile as a scantily clad customer dogpaddles her way onto the submerged bar stool. See? Professional. As professional as anyone can be, dressed up like a damn monkey, in a stupid white suit, pandering to rich thugs and their hookers from a pool-side bar.

"What can I get you?" Aya asks.

"Some more of what they're having would be nice," the girl slurs, craning towards the shallow end of the pool.

Sweat trickles into Aya's eyes and he feels his face settle back into its usual frown.

"How old are you pretending to be? Supposedly you have to be eighteen," Aya snaps.

"Pardon?" Glazed eyes finally turn away from the vision of Yohji, lounging idly on a ludicrous, banana-shaped pool float, surrounded by a bevy of undoubtedly surgically-enhanced women.

"Have you got ID? You look as if you're underage."

"Are you kidding me?" She waves one hand vaguely down her body. Aya can see her point. Her assets are barely restrained by the tiny scraps of gold lame that constitute her swimming attire. If she had even a postage stamp on her, it would be immediately obvious.

"What's the deal? This is Koizumi's party – no cops here." she adds petulantly, lips pursing.

Aya grits his teeth. "My apologies, I was thinking of my other job. What would you like?"

He can't quite summon the smile this time but it hardly matters; her attention has drifted back to Yohji. He's putting on quite a show. Milking his alias of fashion photographer for all it is worth; using his hands to frame imaginary photos of his enraptured audience, expounding about light and angles as he lingeringly caresses limbs into ridiculous poses.

"Champagne and a vodka sunrise please," she requests, sighing.

Aya takes what little pleasure he can in filling a highball with nothing but orange juice and grenadine. Yohji has attempted to bypass Aya's prohibition against him imbibing on a mission by persuading a different woman to fetch his drink each time. One of the many things Aya plans to make him suffer for later.

A distant flurry of splashes ends in a high pitched squeal and Aya's customer exclaims angrily, "that bitch!"

Aya follows her gaze and feels a muscle in his jaw twinge as he spots Yohji helping to address a wardrobe malfunction.

Yohji shoots Aya a grin and a nonchalant half-shrug as his hands wander all over a lithe back, apparently in search of an errant tie. Aya can't help his muttered curses. There is no way that someone with Yohji's dexterity couldn't have that bikini top done up already. Aya isn't fooled for a second by the supposed embarrassment of the victim. Her shrieks have far too much 'look at me' about them as she clings to Yohji's chest, as if trying to preserve her modesty.

"Siberian checking in," hisses into Aya's ear. He jerks involuntarily and remembers the point of this charade. "Target has not arrived," Ken adds, his frustration at still having nothing further to report clear.

Aya drags his eyes back to the bereft girl sitting in front of him. "Here." Aya shoves the glasses across the bar.

"Thanks," she says disconsolately, grabbing her drink and gulping half of it. She wipes bubbles from her lips then looks warily at the second glass. "Is it meant to look like that?"

"Of course," Aya assures her. How else would it look after having half a bottle of bitters dumped in it? The garnish may have been a bit of overkill but after three wasted hours in this straitjacket, Aya felt a powerful need to skewer _something_. Aya pokes the toothpick and it bobs sharply against his finger before settling deeper into Yohji's drink. Cherries will just have to do, for now.

Half an hour later Omi manages to hack into the target's registered flight plan and discovers the reason for his no-show. Fog. Fucking sleet and fog. Omi and Ken can bail, leaving Aya to marinate in this tacky sweat-box, all thanks to a fucking cold snap in Hong Kong.

Aya stares balefully at Yohji, water shimmering from his body as he emerges, laughing, from the pool. Next time Yohji can wear the suit and Aya…well, he'd pick something a bit more dignified than the miniscule Speedos Yohji's practically bursting out of.

Finally a rough-looking head pops over the entry hatch. "Red, party's winding down. Pack up your bar then see Omaki for your payment,"

Aya grunts his agreement. About damn time. He makes short work of the clearing up, keeping one eye on Yohji to make sure he's noticed. The bastard fought like crazy before accepting he had to wear an earpiece for communication, then went and got it waterlogged within five minutes of arriving.

Somehow Yohji manages to smoothly extricate himself from his adoring masses in order to cross paths with Aya as he's walking out.

"Home. Now," Aya growls.

Yohji grins happily. "I just have to – "

"Five minutes." Aya doesn't hang around for the inevitable protest.

~

Yohji pounds up the parking station stairs as fast as his burning lungs allow. Damn Aya and his impossible deadlines. Yohji's been fantasising for hours about having his mind – and other body parts – blown in the back seat of Aya's Porsche. If Aya's left already Yohji's going to kill him. Yohji didn't even take the time to strip off his swimming costume and wet lycra _chafes_.

Maybe he shouldn't have provoked Aya quite so much. Nah, live dangerously and all that shit. Aya's been downright aloof since they started this thing. Yohji's sick of blowing off potential dates in the hope that Aya will deign to make time for him. He's overdue for a shove in the right direction.

Yohji ignores the knowledge that Aya is at his most lethal when backed into a corner. There are worse things than spending your last afternoon on this earth having gorgeous women throw themselves at you.

The door on the top level is so swollen with the recent humidity that Yohji has to strain to heave it open. He bursts through, heart thundering in his chest and scans the cars frantically, trying to recall where Aya parked. His own breathing is so loud he doesn't detect the sound of movement at all; adrenaline surges through him as wiry arms wrap firmly around him.

Yohji lurches, then stills as his mind registers the exact position of his assailant's hands.

"Aya," Yohji surmises.

"You're wet, Kudoh," Aya breathes into his ear.

"That's what happens when you swim," Yohji points out. It's hard to come up with anything insightful when your cold, wet dick is being groped by a possibly vengeful lover. Probably should have kept his mouth shut. Won't be a problem now because Aya's grip has tightened so painfully around Yohji's balls that he won't be making any sounds other than high pitched squeaks.

Aya finally lets go, the better to slam Yohji up against the bare brick wall. Yohji would thump him if he weren't so busy trying to cradle his genitals and assess the likelihood of them ever speaking to him again.

"Lose the pants," Aya orders.

"Are you crazy?" Yohji yelps. Aya's not getting anywhere near these babies any time soon.

Aya strikes with deadly speed and Yohji finds both wrists pinioned above his head.

"Of course you're crazy."

"Shut up, Yohji," Aya rejoinders then snakes his head forward to bite Yohji's bottom lip. Yohji tries to turn his face away but Aya's not letting go. His body presses hotly against Yohji's, one knee forcing Yohji's legs apart. Yohji squirms against Aya's grip and the movement rubs the hard  ridge of Aya's erection along Yohji's inner thigh.

"Aya -" Yohji tries to protest but Aya muffles him by plunging his tongue into Yohji's mouth.

Yohji's speculated about how it is possible that Aya kisses as if he spends his days doing nothing else. It's a mystery. A hot, wet, resistance-melting enigma, that Yohji's been aching to explore further.

By the time Aya releases Yohji's wrists and cups Yohji's face in both of his hands, pulling back to lick along Yohji's lips, Yohji no longer wants to hit him. In fact, it seems Yohji's dick has developed a firm regard for Aya's brand of insanity after all.

This time, when Aya rasps, "pants off now," Yohji can't comply fast enough. He's glad he's not wearing his usual clothes – damp, skin-tight pants are a bitch to wriggle out of. No way he'd lie down on this floor to do so; the gritty feel against his feet when he kicks off his loafers is bad enough.

Aya beats him to readiness – pants shoved just far enough down for the application of a condom, foil packet of slick ripped open and waiting as Aya eyes Yohji impatiently. Yohji raises one eyebrow at the thought of Aya carrying lube on a mission, then he recognises the logo on the packet. Aya must have ducked into one of the private cabanas at the party before leaving. The thought of Aya lurking in the car park, waiting to jump Yohji's bones is so hot, Yohji isn't sure he can manage to stay upright. Where's a damn bed when you need one?

"Yohji," Aya growls, snapping him back to the business at hand.

"Right," Yohji answers, shimmying out of his swimmers and attempting to stick his feet back into his shoes. Aya snorts and kicks them away.

"Aya! This ground is filthy," Yohji complains.

"Fine," Aya snaps, pushing the lube into Yohji's fumbling grip and hooking his hands behind Yohji's thighs, "I'll get you off it then."

Aya works out in their gym rain, hail or shine, so Yohji tries not to be impressed that he can lift him so easily. Besides, the wall is hard and being folded up against it isn't the ideal position for sticking lube in your ass. Yohji really should insist on the back seat of the Porsche. That was his plan, after all. But Aya's dick is right _there_ and fuck it, Yohji's renowned for his flexibility.

"Ready, Aya, ready," Yohji gasps and Aya's inside him before the words are fully out. He's fucking like he really means it – hard and deep and Yohji can just barely hang on for the ride; lungs squeezed so tightly he feels dizzy, throbbing dick sandwiched between their bodies, hands spasming in their grip on Aya's shoulders.

Then Aya's yelling in his ear and Aya's legs are shaking so hard that Yohji feels the tremor right through him. He's not sure that it isn't _him_ shaking, he's so surprised to learn that Aya isn't always silent when he comes.

Yohji's just starting to wonder whether both of them falling to the ground might not be more comfortable than Aya using him to prop up the building, when Aya gets it together enough to pivot and dump Yohji onto the nearest car hood. Yohji's back has had more than enough rough treatment, and his ass isn't too thrilled either, what with the sting of abrupt withdrawal, but all of these concerns pale next to the painful protest his ears make at the immediate blaring of the car's alarm.

Screaming "shit!" as loudly as he can doesn't even dent the wall of sound. Yohji wants to escape as quickly as possible but his legs aren't cooperating. It takes his brain far too long to work out that that would be because Aya has his hips pinned down and his legs splayed, and for the first time ever, Yohji's mid blow-job without even realising.

Yohji catches up fast though, digging his heels in to get leverage; taking advantage of every heated centimeter of Aya's throat. Aya has his eyes closed and he's so focused on this, so focused on sucking Yohji's dick, that Death himself could be barrelling towards him and he wouldn't know. The thought's too much. It's all too much. Yohji comes before he even has time to worry if Aya's a swallowing kind of guy.

Yohji sprawls listlessly, panting through one hell of an afterglow. Wait a minute, he can hear himself panting. That damn car alarm has stopped assaulting his ears. Ahh, his bliss is complete. Except for the lack of post-sex snuggle.

Yohji cants his head to find Aya staring down at the hood of the car. Maybe he's communing with his own sense of fantastic well-being.

Aya frowns.

Maybe he's contemplating the perfect revenge for a mouthful of semen.

"Aya?"

"I'm never parking here again," Aya pronounces.

"You didn't like the service?" Yohji asks in disbelief.

"Their security is appalling," Aya says seriously.

Yohji laughs so hard he sets off the alarm again. He can't manage to stop, or even to move away from the renewed cacophony, until he gets a face-full of wet Speedo. Aya's already disappearing so Yohji scrambles up and uses the projectile to clean himself up a bit, before throwing on his remaining clothes. He looks around for a place to dump the swimmers, then spots the bent three-pointed star. They just fucked on a Mercedes bonnet. Yohji shrugs. No accounting for some people's taste. The hood ornament makes a convenient hanger, so he leaves a little memento of their visit.

Aya's actually waiting for him, arms and legs crossed as he leans against the door of the Porsche. Yohji slows down and ignores his various protesting muscles to force as much slink into his walk as possible. For good measure, he flicks a cigarette into the corner of his mouth and lights it with a flourish of his Zippo.

Aya's face doesn't even twitch as his hand shoots out to summarily dispense with Yohji's cigarette.

"Too coordinated," Aya observes with displeasure, "I'll have to fuck that out of you once I get you home."

Oh yeah. As far as Yohji's concerned, this mission has been a complete success.


End file.
